Calrad Manor

The baron's eyes suddenly lit up as he spoke, as if he had thought of something better.

"Speaking of chicken, I just remembered—the ball in Vizima. I'm telling you, there was a whole turkey, stuffed with chestnuts and apples, its skin roasted caramel brown. We danced until nearly dawn, and the band played all night."

He rose to his feet, casually grabbed the old woman sweeping nearby, and dragged her into a turn across the flagstones, still chattering away.

"At the ball in Vizima, Anna wore that green dress. I'm telling you, that dress..."

The officer took a step back, disgust and helplessness appearing on his face. He looked as though he were watching a raving drunk, one he could not simply draw his sword and cut down because that madman also happened to be Velen's nominal lord.

He rolled up the document and tucked it beneath his arm. "Since the baron currently has no intention of cooperating with the investigation, we can speak another day. Be prepared when that time comes. We have more questions to ask."

He turned and strode toward the door, his military boots striking the flagstones. Every step carried the barely restrained fury of a man who had been humiliated.

The garden fell quiet again. The baron released the old woman, and she merely patted the dust from her skirt before resuming her sweeping, muttering, "Here we go again."

The baron stood where he was. The exaggerated excitement had vanished from his face completely, leaving behind a face steeped in alcohol but still shrewd. He wiped his face with one hand and glanced toward the doorway, making sure the officer had gone far enough.

Then he waved Ron over. "Come here."

Inside the main hall, his gaze settled on Geralt. It held no hostility, only appraisal. A witcher had appeared at Crow's Nest; the baron could guess Geralt's identity and purpose.

After Geralt explained why he had come, the baron waved the guards away. He set his flask on the table, looked at Geralt, then at Ron, and began his account.

He spoke of how Ron had rescued Ciri and Gretka from the forest, how they had worked together to kill the werewolf, and how he had warmly received Ciri while she recovered at Crow's Nest.

He took a swig from the flask, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and looked at Geralt. His eyes were still bloodshot, but his gaze was clear and sharp—the sharpness of an old fox making calculations.

"And then?" Geralt's voice was so calm that it seemed as though he had lost all emotion at the sudden change.

The baron set down the flask. "We'll discuss what happened after that later, witcher. Information isn't free."

"What do you want?"

"I sympathize with what happened to you, but don't forget that my wife and daughter are missing too." His voice sank.

"I sent men to search all of Velen. They couldn't find so much as a hair. I need someone to help me find them."

He paused, and the hand gripping the flask trembled for an instant. "Help me find them, and I'll tell you everything I know about Ciri."

Geralt was silent for a moment. "What if your family is already dead?"

"Then bring back their remains. I need to know what happened to them."

By the fireplace, Ron had maintained the same posture the entire time. He had previously taken the baron's order to search for Anna and Tamara, and he had sent scouts as well, but the depths of the swamp were not terrain soldiers were skilled at searching.

The baron was now handing the task over to the witcher. It was not Ron's specialty, but for a witcher with extraordinary senses, it would not be a problem.

He merely stood there, watching the two men make a silent bargain in the firelight.

Geralt nodded. "Deal. But I want to see the little girl who was with Ciri first."

The baron let go of the flask and leaned back in his chair, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

"That? Then you'll have to ask my sergeant. He's adopted the girl."

Geralt turned his head, shifting his gaze from the baron to the giant standing beside the fireplace.

Ron met his eyes without speaking, only nodding once. Geralt said nothing either. Two men who did not care for idle words completed their first acquaintance with a silent nod.

The next day, Geralt and Ron rode out of Crow's Nest, traveling side by side toward the southeast.

The morning mist had not yet fully dispersed, and a layer of white vapor drifted over the swamp. Yet the horses' hooves landed steadily on the road with every step.

After riding for nearly half a day, the reeds drew back to either side and the view opened up. The swamp no longer lay ahead. As they rounded a bend in the river, stone walls and watchtowers came into view, purple banners bearing lions snapping in the morning breeze.

The crossbowman atop the watchtower spotted them and shouted down. The heavy oak gates were pushed open from within, their hinges groaning with dry friction.

Ron's horse did not stop. The two horses passed through the gate one after the other, Geralt following behind him into Calrad Manor.

Beyond the gate ran a gravel road, crowded with people on both sides. Several farmers squatted by the roadside with burlap sacks spread open before them.

The sacks held freshly harvested turnips and cabbages. A woman in an apron bent over them, turning leaves with her fingers to check their undersides for insect holes.

Under a wooden shed nearby, a tanner was pulling freshly cured cowhide from a mold. Steam still rose from the edges of the leather, and the air carried the sharp, sour stench of tanning agents.

Several children chased a tabby cat past the back of the tanner's shed. The cat darted behind a stack of crates and vanished. The boy leading the chase ran headfirst into the leg of a soldier wearing a purple surcoat.

The soldier staggered from the impact, cursed, then bent down and lifted the boy by the back of his collar, carrying him to the roadside. "Stop running around here. Go to the square." The boy stuck out his tongue at him, then turned and ran off to chase the cat again.

The clang of hammers striking anvils came from the direction of the river, mixed with the low rumble of a turning waterwheel. Commands from the training ground and the clash of weapons were gathered by the surrounding walls, echoing in a constant hum.

Beside the open-air stalls, several soldiers fresh from the training ground raised wooden tankards and shouted loudly. Their cups clacked together, and ale sloshed over the rims onto the table.

The witcher had seen Novigrad's prosperity and Oxenfurt's order—cities protected by walls. But this was Velen, a lawless land filled with swamps, monsters, bandits, and war. He tightened his grip on the reins, suppressing an inexplicable sense of absurdity.

Geralt turned his gaze toward the river. The paddles of the waterwheel were being slowly driven by the current, while cams on the main axle lifted a crossbar and brought a forging hammer crashing down.

More than a dozen apprentices bustled about their stations inside the workshop. Some fed red-hot iron billets beneath the forging hammer, while others carried baskets of spearheads onto carts waiting by the entrance.

Geralt looked at the neatly stacked weapons on the cart outside the workshop. There were enough to arm every Crow's Nest soldier he had ever seen.

As they passed a small chapel, the sound of children reading drifted from inside. A gentle female voice guided them in identifying medicinal herbs.

The laboratory windows appeared ahead. Only a stone-paved path separated the stone house from the herb garden, and soft blue light shone through the windows. Ron dismounted and pushed open the door, stepping slightly aside so Geralt could see inside.

A crucible was heating in the laboratory, and a potion bubbled away.

Keira Metz sat in a chair near the crucible, still holding her teacup with elegance. But her expression—the expression of someone who had given up struggling after being asked "why" continuously for hours—was plain to see.